Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

5,000,000+ figure for 1960, I don’t believe the 7,000,000+ figure for this year.

I have one very wild theory. Our State Department may see no advantage in

calling them liars on this point. Through several administrations we have been

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extremely careful not to hurt their feelings. I think this is a mistake but I am

neither president nor secretary of state; my opinion is not important and may be

wrong.

(” ‘But the Emperor is not wearing any clothes,’ said the child.”)

The three biggest lies in the USA today:

1) The check is in the mail.

2) I gave at the office.

3) (Big, cheery smile) “Hello! I’m from Washington. I’m here to

help you!”

1~ -Anon.f

FOREWORD

In April 1962 I received a letter from the advertising agents of Hoffman

Electronics: They had a wonderful idea-SF stories about electronics, written by

wellknown SF writers, just long enough to fill one column of Scientific American or

Technology Review or such, with the other two thirds of the page an ad for Hoffman

Electronics tied into the gimmick of the story. For this they offered a gee-whiz

word rate-compared with SF magazines.

A well-wrought short story is twice as hard to write as

a novel; a short-short is at least eight times as hard-but

one that short. . . there are much easier ways of making

a living. I dropped them a postcard saying, “Thanks but

I’m busy on a novel.” (True-GLORY ROAD)

They upped the ante. This time I answered, “Thanks and I feel flattered-but

I don’t know anything about electronics.” (Almost true.)

They wrote back offering expert advice from Hoffman’s engineers on the

gimmick-and a word rate six times as high as The Saturday Evening Post had paid me.

I had finished GLORY ROAD; I sat down and drafted this one-then sweated

endlessly to get it under 1200 words as required by contract. Whereas I had written

GLORY ROAD in 23 days and enjoyed every minute of it. This is why lazy writers

prefer novels.

SEARCHLIGHT

“Will she hear you?”

“If she’s on this face of the Moon. If she was able to get out of the ship.

If her suit radio wasn’t damaged. If she has it turned on. If she is alive. Since

the ship is silent and no radar beacon has been spotted, it is unlikely that she or

the pilot lived through it.”

“She’s got to be found! Stand by, Space Station. Tycho Base, acknowledge.”

Reply lagged about three seconds, Washington to Moon and back. “Lunar Base,

Commanding General.”

“General, put every man on the Moon out searching for Betsy!”

Speed-of-light lag made the answer sound grudging. “Sir, do you know how big

the Moon is?”

“No matter! Betsy Barnes is there somewhere-so every man is to search until

she is found. If she’s dead, your precious pilot would be better off dead, too!”

“Sir, the Moon is almost fifteen million square miles. If I used every man I

have, each would have over a thousand square miles to search. I gave Betsy my best

pilot. I won’t listen to threats against him when he can’t answer back. Not from

anyone, sir! I’m sick of being told what to do by people who don’t know Lunar

conditions. My advice-my official advice, sir-is to let Meridian Station try. Maybe

they can work a miracle.

The answer rapped back, “Very well, General! I’ll

speak to you later. Meridian Station! Report your plans.”

Elizabeth Barnes, “Blind Betsy,” child genius of the piano, had been making

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a USO tour of the Moon. She “wowed ’em” at Tycho Base, then lifted by jeep rocket

for Farside Hardbase, to entertain our lonely missilemen behind the Moon. She should

have been there in an hour. Her pilot was a safety pilot; such ships shuttled

unpiloted between Tycho and Farside daily.

After lift-off her ship departed from its programming, was lost by Tycho’s

radars. It was. . . somewhere.

Not in space, else it would be radioing for help and its radar beacon would

be seen by other ships, space stations, surface bases. It had crashed-or made

emergency landing-somewhere on the vastness of Luna.

“Meridian Space Station, Director speaking-” Lag was unnoticeable; radio